


One Thing

by 67_coquette



Category: BioShock, BioShock Infinite
Genre: Business Associates to Lovers, First Kiss, First Time, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Melting Fink's Ice Heart, Non-Woobie Flambeau, Pastel Angst, implied sex, or rather..., soft angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-01
Updated: 2014-11-01
Packaged: 2018-02-23 13:37:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2549474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/67_coquette/pseuds/67_coquette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fink processed impossible ideas, distilling inspiration into the building blocks of pure practicality - Flambeau had mused on it early in their partnership. What had he called it then? The magic… no, the machinery… of manifestation. There was no magic in blood and grease. On this, they reached agreement. The world was not made by God or chance, but by men who found forges deep inside, and made themselves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Thing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [June Revolver](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=June+Revolver).



> Happy birthday, dearest.

* * *

  dedicated - sharp - engineering - pointed - masterful - dedicated

* * *

  **“When I’m looking at you, I can’t ever be brave…”**

* * *

 strong - manipulative - articulate - precise - calculated - strategic

* * *

  _“I don’t know what it is,  
_ _but I need that one thing.  
_ _You've got that one thing...”_

There were moments when Fink was leaning over his papers, or sitting in thought, that fascinated his associate. The sound of blueprints and maps as they were unrolled and spread beneath wide palms, the steady rhythm of his breathing, even the way Fink’s face was shaped by the light thrown upon it… These moments were, on their own, wholly unremarkable. Nonetheless, Flambeau found himself returning to them frequently, in situations where such recollections were unwarranted; there was nothing to trigger the remembrance, nothing familiar that reminded him of what had come before and what would surely come again. Those still moments gave him shivers. So much power just underneath the surface, throbbing against Jeremiah’s temples as he worked.

Flambeau kept his recollections curled inside of his chest like fruit that had not yet ripened, each a still image of Fink, full of the possibilities that come with an oncoming bloom. In these moments, he was incubating the incredible, and Flambeau - who prided himself on his ability to see everything - noticed it all.

They were with him when he was out, running from one place to another, delivering messages and proposals. In his mind, he fixed on them like targets. This was what he was working towards - facilitating more of those moments. Fink processed impossible ideas, distilling inspiration into the building blocks of pure practicality - Flambeau had mused on it early in their partnership. What had he called it then? The magic… no, the machinery… of manifestation. There was no magic in blood and grease. On this, they reached agreement. The world was not made by God or chance, but by men who found forges deep inside, and made themselves.

Not that Flambeau didn’t have a fire of his own. He liked the action of it, the manipulation and satisfaction of seeing his work done in the world,  but the goal was flexible and imprecise. He worked best when he found someone that he could follow and arrange for. He was not a glorified secretary, but a force to be reckoned with - a chess player - an architect whose only love was the work itself..

Both of them were adaptable creatures, shaping their outer world to more effectively serve their inner ones; it was only the methods which differed. Where Jeremiah Fink had been hardened by a working class life, Oscar Flambeau had been smoothed over. They may not have needed one another in the strictest sense, but they were better, more efficient, more effective, together than apart, and everything that resulted from their partnership seemed natural and logical - except, of course, the emotional did not follow the same rules as the mundane.

Where Fink used the genius of innovation and the blunted, brute force of pure will - Flambeau found himself using cunning and the calculated mask of compassion. It was true that he did not think of himself as cruel. Still, there was some relationship with power and cruelty he found himself unwilling to decipher, yet drawn to. It was not the only thing he refused to look too closely at. He hated to admit his being afraid or anxious about anything, but also knew willful ignorance was as destructive as stupidity. He refused to place himself in the arena of those who did not know themselves, rejecting mastery of themselves and the world at large..

The attraction had always been rooted in admiration, control and intellect, but it seemed it had suddenly and without warning, exploded into the physical; Flambeau found himself staring from the threshold of the doorway one night, mouth suddenly dry, and wondered when this had become what it now was. As much as he noticed, as many details as he filed away for future use, he had not been anticipating this - it’s suddenness, it’s strength. This feeling - this package of feelings - was messy, useless and uncomfortable. He wasn’t sure how to navigate further. He had never been unsure like this, not when it came to other men, but Jeremiah Fink was not just any other man. He would not be puzzled over like a problem that needed solving.

“What are you gaping at?” Fink growled, and Flambeau tightened his shoulders as he pulled himself together. He held a breath, ignoring the hitch of his heart as Jeremiah turned his dark eyes to him.

“Nothing, sir. I’ve just been…” Stop talking, Oscar. “Thinking.” Don’t lose composure.

Fink furrowed his brows and closed the leather bound book he had been reviewing. “Thinking,” he repeated. He closed the distance between them. There was the faint scent of whiskey on his breath, faded from hours away from the bottle.

“W-Well, yes,” Flambeau answered, lips shaking slightly. He pursed them into a tight line. Their eyes locked, and Oscar tilted his head just slightly - a tell indicating his confusion - and the tension spiked. It was clear there was nothing to be done about it when Flambeau looked away.

Fink’s voice was gruff as it cut through the tension. “It’s time you left,” He snapped, cutting the air with the sharp angle of his left shoulder as he made his exit.

The moment hung unfinished. Will you look at that, he thought, fascinated in the detached manner of a scientist. His hands were shaking. A door slammed down the hall.  Flambeau released a deep breath, and then turned to exit, sorrow pressed heavily against his body.

 

* * *

  _“Something’s gotta give now,  
_ _cause I’m dying just to make you see  
_ _That I need you here with me now...”_

There are dozens of moments like this one before anything happens. Fink’s temper grows shorter with everyone, but most especially Flambeau. There are no moments when Oscar can watch him work without aggravating the tension. He takes what he can, now - the glimpse of Fink’s broad shoulders as he turns away from him, his booming voice over the speakers. He clings to them and feels his body grow warm all over, finds himself drained with want. Fink avoids him when he can manage to do so, or cuts him off, or refuses to tell him anecdotes like he used to - there is nothing friendly between them. Oscar can only assume that he’s deduced his feelings of attraction and reacted with contempt and revulsion. The amount of liquor he consumes increases.

It’s dim in the Leisure room when Fink invites him for drinks. There is no manipulation of the crank - now, the clock shows the right hours. He kept things so precise - his schedule, the sparseness of his bedroom, the sharp press of his clothes. They talked of arrangements, smiled over the weaknesses of men they’d made deals with. The game was to be cordial. The game was to fake normalcy. Oscar has always been much better at this than Jeremiah, but he wondered what had changed - why now did he chose this moment to challenge the tension?

The pretension had faded and grown distant as they ran out of things to say. Soon enough, there was nothing left between them except for the heavy, suffocating feeling of what went unspoken. There was work to be done, and things to mull over - the wine settled hot in his stomach as he shook loose his curls.

“I should go -” Oscar had started, standing. The hand on his arm was heavy, grip tight. Touching between them was regulated very strictly, especially in the last few months, as gazes lingered longer and their mutual attraction became more oppressive. Flambeau felt his face begin to redden. Jeremiah murmured, but all Oscar caught was the low and rough sound of his voice, and felt his body react - twinges in his knees as they grew weaker.

“Sir?” He managed, voice wavering. He tried to focus on the crisp lines of Jeremiahs hat, as it sat discarded on the side table beside the wine bottles he kept.

“Don’t make me beg,” Jeremiah snapped. It had been a long time since Oscar was afraid of Jeremiah's anger, and his snapping only gave him a shuddering sense of longing. It was what was said next that he could not comprehend, had no prepared reaction to.  “Damn it, stay.”

“Sir," Jeremiah said again, although this time it escaped on the wisp of a breath. Was this how it ended? Was this moment the breaking point? All this resentfulness and pride between them, and too easily it folded back in the face of unabashed attraction.

It was hard after the fact for Oscar to realize in what order everything happened in, but he did sink to his knees, and it did start with his initiating a kiss. He couldn't imagine Jeremiah initiating it - it had to be him, unafraid in this moment, seizing an opportunity. Between them, as Flambeau moved his lips close enough to timidly brush Jeremiahs mustache, he realized he was no longer afraid.

"Is this what you want, sir?" He managed to ask, eyes half-lidded. Jeremiah did not lean away, even as he had tested their distance.

"Yes," he responded quietly, and Oscar felt his own reaction order his actions. When their lips finally did crush together, it was hard and desperate - almost spiteful in it’s mix of determination and bitterness. Oscar yielded easily after the first. Someone must have bled - there was blood on his tongue but he couldn't tell whose. In response, he felt Jeremiah relax his control in proportion to the response, but then broke contact in a mkment of haggard uncertainty. Oscar took the opportunity to guide him. Despite his anxiety, it was Oscar who took lead, showing Jeremiah all of the things he had noticed. All of the ways he had of unraveling the tension, fingers only the beginning.

In the months that followed, Oscar tried to imagine the shape of their connection in terms of cogs and gears, steam and electricity, rope and oil. Intimacy, as it turned out, would be little different than business.

Nothing about their relationship could ever been anything but this - sharp edges, a give and take, knowing when to strike. It was always more a negotiation than a show of force, and all from men who circled compromise the way that vultures would circle the wounded - with a caution only cruelty might provide.

* * *

  _“Get out of my head  
_ _and fall into my arms instead...”_

This time, it’s Jeremiah’s eyes that grow oil black with hunger; he is watching his associate make notes inside of a ledger, presumably ones he is about to present to Fink himself. He has found himself comfortable standing in the doorframe. Occasionally, he makes a sound, an “ah” or an “mmm.” His lips are parted slightly. Jeremiah knows they are also wet and warm… He imagines the heat of that breath against his neck… He finds his eyes tracing the fit of Oscar’s clothes as he moves into his line of vision.

“Sir?” Oscar says suddenly, and Jeremiah’s eyes find his and lock into place. His face has grown red. The light from the hallway curves across the edges of his soft hair.

“You still blush when I look at you.” Jeremiah states, and he is not smiling, but his tone is playful.. “After all we’ve done...”

“That - that’s not - ” Oscar attempts, and Jeremiah grabs his wrist in one sudden and sharp movement. The ledger does not fall - it is lightly tossed aside, and lands closed and safe beside them on the ground. Never without foresight...

It is only moments before Oscar is braced up against the doorframe.

 

**Author's Note:**

> The headcanons adapted in the text reflect the authors understanding of two very underdeveloped and underutilized characters, both in the canon media as well as the supplementary fan texts.
> 
> it comes from a interest in the ways that Fink and Flambeau really do mirror one another, especially in the way they are interested in self-control and vulnerability. 
> 
> A lack of canon evidence has lead me to deduce much and play hard and fast with the rules of the universe. Details like location, time of day, etc. are left vague purposefully, in hopes the reader might cement them in.
> 
> It is headcanon that One Thing by One Direction is one of the songs Albert Fink picked up through the tears and made a fortune on. Being a popular song, it's only natural the lyrics break up Flambeau's thoughts - it's an earwarmer... ;)
> 
> Write more Finkbeau.


End file.
